


TRUTH SHOP

by silveradept



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/pseuds/silveradept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who seek truth are not always ready when they find it, nor do they accept it easily. A man, hurt as a boy, looks for answers, but only finds the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TRUTH SHOP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSeanchai (EllieMurasaki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/gifts).



"TRUTH SHOP," said the sign on the window. No logo, no tag line, no telephone numbers or email addresses, no cute pun or statement underneath. Just what the place was, in what felt like an aggressively take-it-or-leave-it proposition. There wasn't really any information to be gathered by standing outside trying to analyze the sign, so he turned the handle of the door and stepped inside, his presence announced by an electronic chime.

The inside of the store offered a little more information about what might be the purpose of the place. A bookcase with Tarot decks, rune pouches, oracle cards, Oujia boards, and associated how-to books for each of them stood in the corner to his left, on top of some board games - Trouble, Aggravation, and the no doubt horrible adaptation of the movie Jumanji. In the other corner on his right were several machines that purported to tell how hot a lover he was by measuring the sweatiness of his palms, or by letting a mechanical stereotype of a Roma make some movements and dispense a ticket with a preprinted fortune-cookie proclamation. Next to them, a glass-enclosed case displayed artifacts such as "The Skull of Truth", a magnifying glass, a set of small books with titles like "On the Nature and Analysis of the Ash of Tobacco in the Detection and Resolution of Crimes", bamboo plants "guaranteed" to show guilt, a couple of rocks next to a piece of armor, with a small card next to them that read האורים והתומים, and a golden apple with an inscription: τῇ καλλίστῃ. 

There didn't seem to be rhyme or reason to the shop, he mused, as he examined some of the other bookshelves on the walls - dream interpretation, automatic writing, a larger-than-expected section on self-help and getting out of bad relationships, including some titles that he had thought were long since out of print, and and an entire shelf of blank journals in the middle of everything.

"Can I help you?"

He startled a little at the voice of someone he assumed was the shopkeeper. Those empty books must have been more fascinating that he originally thought. Turning to face her, he grinned a little sheepishly, putting his hand behind his head. "Um, yes. What is this place?"

"The sign outside says all," she replied. "Do you have any non-obvious questions to ask?" He fumbled for a reply, a retort, even a grade-school insult to try and match her dismissive sarcasm, but the surprise of being insulted left him temporarily unable to speak.

"Ara, be nice," came a voice from the shop counter in the back. "Customers are rare these days, and should probably be treated with a little more respect than the subjects of your cross-stitch."

He wondered how he had missed both women in the shop. Thinking back, though, he realized that nobody had acknowledged the chime from the door, and that he had never actually looked father back into the store when he came in. It was possible they had been there the entire time while he was staring at the things on their shelves. 

Thoroughly embarrassed, he moved so that he could see and converse with both of the women. "I was intrigued by the sign. I came in to see if you were one of those 826 shops that have the odd goods inside and I guess I was expecting something more...organized."

The woman behind the counter smiled. "No, I'm not associated with 826, although I think they do fine work. You're not the first person to mistake this shop for one of theirs, though. Truth, after all, takes many forms, some of which you do not expect."

"A fact which I am intimately familiar with, regrettably," he said. The long nights of research had proven that. Truth was often whatever those who had money and connections wanted it to be. Reality was rejected as easily as any other message that wasn't theirs. He shuddered at how easy it had been, even when he had the proof, for that smug, smiling bastard...

Stopping himself before he went too far down that rabbit hole, he refocused his attention on the two women in the shop. Ara was tall in the legs and long in the arms and fingers, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Black Widow on it. She was holding a hoop of stretched canvas in her hands, flitting a needle and black thread back and forth according to a pattern that he assumed was in her head. He'd never been a good judge of heritage, but if he was going to speculate, he would have guessed she had family somewhere around the Mediterranean Sea. There was a glint in her eyes as she worked that suggested whatever she was stitching would be a joke to those in the know and a scandal to those it was about. And, just possibly, there might have been a hint of a fang poking through her concentration. The register attendant reminded him of some of the statues be had seen walking through art museums, as if instead of a floofy floor-length skirt and sleeveless top, she should be wearing artfully draped and folded material on a staged background. In contrast to Ara's almost predatory expression, she seemed faintly amused at the whole situation, as if everything was part of a play that only she was aware of.

"What sort of truth do you deal in here?" he asked.

"All kinds," she replied, "from profound spiritual revelations to whether or not the hubby is cheating with the best friend."

"Ah, so you're private investigators, then." he said, mentally slotting Ara into the "bad cop" role of the duo.

"I have a license, yes, but I prefer to contract out for that kind of work. Very few good things come from those kinds of revelations, and I'm tired of being accused of lying by the person that hired me." She tapped a finger on the register. "It's very hard to get paid when the client thinks you're trying to fleece them."

"I can imagine. I saw a lot of fortune-telling and divination materials here. Should I be telling you my astrological sign?"

"Only if you want a natal chart. I usually let Ara handle anyone who wants to use cheesy pick-up lines on me." 

_Definitely the bad cop_ , he thought as Ara perked up. "Ooh, do I get a new chew toy?" she said, the excitement in her voice matching the feral grin on her face.

"Not yet. Maybe later," the cashier said reassuringly. "All of the divination stuff is 'for entertainment purposes only', anyway. Certified oracle of Apollo and all that, but I still have to protect my business just in case someone decides to act on what they see or hear."

"Do you get a lot of clients?" He indicated the empty shop.

"A few, here and there, that are actually interested in receiving the truth and acting on it." The cashier's voice took on a bitterness that he didn't expect to come from her. "Most people, when they say they want the truth, are really looking for a convenient justification for what they've decided. Or they're asking questions they don't actually want the answers to. Or they decide they don't like the truth and choose to ignore it. I don't know if there's someone who can receive the real truth and not run screaming from it."

Her passion felt familiar to him. He had once had a zeal to uncover the truth. To get and stop other people from getting hurt. He'd burnt bridges, made enemies, and attracted the interest of the rich and powerful. For years, everyone assumed that he was making it up, trying to be a big enough nuisance so that he could collect a fat settlement check, or that he had hallucinated seeing a respectable community member preying on others. Once he finally had the proof he had been looking for, his reputation was so far in the toilet that he had to leave it all on the doorstep of the newspaper anonymously. He had thought then that the truth would be good enough on its own. Now he knew better. It sounded like she was well on the way to learning it herself.

"What would you recommend for a first-time truth seeker?" he asked her, keeping his tone light and jovial.

"That depends on the truth you're looking for. Some methods are better suited to certain questions than others. Yes or no questions work well anywhere, but more complex things ask for different tools."

"I'm looking for a fresh start," he said. "I'd like to put my past six feet under and salt the earth where it lies. But I'm not sure how to get to the future and make sure the past stays in the past."

She nodded. "I think I know what will work for you. Have a seat at this table here. I'll be right back." Shortly, she returned, carrying a black velvet pouch. Sitting down across from him, she smiled at him.

"Fifteen dollars gives you a basic three card reading. Fifty nets you the full version. Payment up front, of course, and remember,-"

"-entertainment purposes only." He fished in his wallet for the money and placed it in the table in front of her. She picked up the bills and went to the register, returning with his receipt. After he pocketed it, she opened the velvet pouch and drew out a deck of large cards.

"Normally," she said, "the person asking the question is supposed to shuffle the cards, while thinking about their question, but this particular deck behaves a little differently. It provides guidance, but it needs for you to share a truth with it. For most people, their name is enough. What's yours?"

"Call me Jack of Fables. It works well enough."

She gave him a sharp, sarcastic bark that might have passed for a laugh. "I have met Jack of Fables, and you, sir, are no Jack of Fables."

"Fine. My name is Harold Finch."

Any mirth that might have been part of the last laugh vanished as she fixed him with a cold and almost angry look. "Harold Finch is a recluse that lives in New York City and rarely leaves, except at the direction of what might be the first general artificial intelligence. I don't think he would be happy with you appropriating one of his aliases."

"I don't suppose I could convince you that I am the real Dirk Diggler."

_"No."_

He waited for a minute, expecting Ara to pile on with that last attempt, but she had, at some point, melted away into some other part of the place without him noticing.

He sighed. He had truths. Any one of them should do, but there was something about the way she phrased the request that made it sound like the cards needed a big truth, one of the truths that touched the core of his being.

"It took me six years to finally bring down the Wolf after what he did to me. I still feel responsible for all the other people he was able to hurt during all that time."

The silence that followed lasted to the edge of uncomfortable before she broke it. "Yes," she said, slowly, as if still digesting the weight of what he said, "that will do. I think that has charged the cards with enough truth for them to function." She spread the cards out on the table, all facedown, as if they were going to play a game of Go Fish. "Take thirteen cards from the pile."

As he selected each card, she took it and put it aside in a stack. Once he was done with the bigger pile, she restacked them and put them into the pouch. The pile of thirteen were laid out in two rows, still facedown.

"I find, with this deck, that it tends to show many possibilities. Some good, some not. All of these cards are related to a potential future. If any of them feel wrong, now that they're in the smaller pile, pull them out." She waited while he looked at all of the cards. He didn't think he could tell if any of them were wrong for him just by looking at their backs, but he found himself taking two cards away from the thirteen and setting them aside.

The remaining eleven cards she stacked on the order that he had pulled them out of the spread. Then, she tapped the table to start the reading.

"The first card we choose represents us. Some people don't change much, and so their card rotates only among a few. Others change a lot in their lives, and so they may never see the same card twice. Your significator is The Gunniwolf," she said, turning over the first card. "A child wandered into the woods chasing something pretty and now has to placate a monster long enough to retreat to safety. You did say you wanted a fresh start."

She chuckled as she turned over the next card: a marionette, a woodcarver, and a fairy. "Of course. This card represents the big influences working on your situation. Pinocchio strives to be free of the strings that control him, but to do so, he has to learn morality and ethics and how to behave in the real world. There's always the temptation of taking the easy path for him." She laid the card on the table upright.

The next card she put on the first, at a right angle to it, forming a small cross with the two cards. "This is the crossing influence, the thing most opposing you. The Three Little Pigs - multiple options are present, but the ones that are easiest are the ones that will fall apart in the face of the Wolf blowing on them. The house of bricks is the hardest way, and will take the longest, but is the only one that will stand."

"Your goal for this question," she said, turning over the next card and placing it above the small cross, "is Cinderella. A magical solution to the problem that will raise you to the heights of money and power without any effort on your part. No wonder you're not sure how to proceed. For that kind of goal you need to be charming, and you seem sincere."

"Little Red Riding Hood," she said, turning over the next card, "represents the very distant past, the foundation, of your current situation. A child strayed from the path on the advice of a wolf. The child strays because they want to do good things for those they love. The child is not lost, but the delay allows the wolf to execute their plan and hurt others."

He knew it was just random cards from a deck, and she was just speaking generalities that could have applied to anyone, but his mind was beginning to fill in the details all the same. How he had decided that if nobody was going to believe him when he told the truth, he didn't have to tell the truth except when it suited him. The arrests that came soon after he decided that ordinary morality didn't apply to him. Then peeling himself off the sidewalk and getting back to finishing the job he started. She was into the next card by the time he returned to the present.

"...Little Jack Horner," she was finishing. "You stuck in your thumb of the tragedy and pulled out the plum of lucre. Maybe some speaking gigs, a book deal, doing the talk show circuit, playing victim to get coin?"

"I did not play a victim. I was one." He felt the familiar defenses and justifications coming to mind, but looking at her arched eyebrow, he realized telling her anything other than the truth would be an exercise in futility. "At the time, I figured that if I was going to be the villain of the play, I might as well make some money off it." A smile played across her face as she moved on to the next card. 

The next card she placed to the right, forming a larger cross around the small one. "The immediate future for you? Puss in Boots. But I can't tell whether or not you're the Marquis du Carabas, being led by the clever cat to riches and wealth, or whether you've become the cat, preying on the innocent and the evil alike to increase your own wealth and comfort until you are satisfied and don't have to do any work any more. Maybe you're starting to enjoy the villain role a little too much, and now you're looking for an apprentice, hmm?" She chuckled as she turned over the next card.

Any humor that was present was replaced by a flicker of annoyance at the next card. "Anansi always thinks himself more clever than all the other animals in Africa, and all that cleverness usually brings him nothing but trouble. This card represents how you see yourself. _Most_ people, even if they do assume they are the smartest in the room, don't draw Anansi. Maybe you are more on the charming end now." She set the card away from the cross.

"How others see you," she said, flipping over the next card and putting it above the spider's card, "seems pretty obvious here. You made a lot of noise but you didn't have the proof to back it up. Once you did, of course, nobody believed you when you cried out."

She turned the next card over and put it above the last. "Son Goku. Afraid, perhaps, that the consequences of your freewheeling life and casual annoyance of people in power will come back to you? Or that this next phase of life will involve escorting a scared priest through hostile territory for a boring set of scriptures?" There was a definite edge to her voice at this point, as if the sympathy she might have had for him at the beginning of the reading was evaporating more swiftly with each new card. Nothing she had said was _wrong_ , necessarily, but she seemed intent on interpreting it all in the worst possible light. Weren't fortune-tellers supposed to focus on making you feel good and powerful?

When she turned over the last card and laid it above the other three, they both stared at it for a very long time before she finally spoke. "The Little Mermaid...is quite possibly one of the worst cards you could draw for the outcome spot."

"I'm guessing there's not a whole lot of Calypso crustacean songs."

"No. Disney gave the story a much happier ending - in the original, she doesn't get the prince. She gets lucky, in that the air spirits adopt her to stop her from turning into sea foam, but it means three hundred more years of trials, plus or minus time based on the behavior of young children. This card says that your current pathway is going to have lots of pain, lots of very poor decisions, and very little reward. Maybe, at the very end of it, you would obtain something precious, but it's going to hurt a lot beforehand."

He wondered how long this shop clerk had been moonlighting as a fortune teller. She had a pretty convincing patter, and her cold reading skills were superb, but she probably wasn't going to get a lot of repeat business with that blunt delivery and lack of positive ends. He stood up from the table, annoyed that he had spent fifty dollars and didn't feel any better afterward.

"This is just one potential future," she said, trying to assuage his developing bad mood. "If you change the path you're on, this result may not happen. Time is not fixed at this point." She gathered the cards back up and put them into the pouch before taking them back to wherever they came from. She returned a short while later and handed him a business card from the holder in front of the till, weirdly avoiding eye contact with him. He was about to thank her with the best that sarcasm could muster when she muttered something and then grabbed his arm with her hands. 

"Hey, let go of...!"

She gripped him harder as he stared in horror, finally getting a good look at her eyes. Where a moment ago there had been what he thought were caring, human eyes, even if she had a funny way of expressing that caring nature, now there were entirely alien eyes starting back at him, snakelike slits that never blinked. When she spoke, if sounded nothing like the woman he had just been sitting at the table with.

_"Come a hero from the East,_  
Free the man from in the beast,  
Bring the child from the band,  
Drive the curser from the land. 

_Tried his best, but missed his shot,_  
From hero to zero, 'twas all for naught,  
His reputation tragic'ly doomed,  
For six long years he toiled and fumed. 

_Now he's revenged and justice done,_  
But gets no thanks from anyone.  
To start again is his desire,  
To flee the nightmare's burning fire. 

_Here's my free advice for you:_  
If you run, young boy, frankly, you're screwed.  
Face your past and your crimes.  
All this is true, because it rhymes." 

She let go of his arm as she finished, and he ran out of the shop until he was several blocks away, stopping in what seemed like a nearby city park and grabbing a bench to sit on.

"Why do you keep doing that, Cas?" Ara said, after the man had run out of the shop in terror. "You know that they're never going to believe you."

"Why do you keep making artwork of scandals and exhibiting them close to where the people involved live?" Cas sighed. "Besides, it's not like I can control when it happens. Certified oracle of Apollo, jerkass god extraordinaire, after all."

"Hey, I do it because it's fun watching the chaos that unfolds when you air out dirty laundry and the truth comes out. Eris knows we need more truth in the world, right? Isn't that your whole thing here? TRUTH SHOP and all that?" Ara's eyes twinkled with mirth at the old familiar argument, while Cas tried to hold together a serious expression. 

"Yeah, yeah," Cas said, dismissively waving her hand. "That curse Athena put on you has nothing to do with it at all, I'm sure. How long did you spend as a spider again?"

"Not as long as you've been stuck shouting the truth and getting nothing for it. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't give him the whole 'hair full of snakes' routine."

"For the last time," Cas said, struggling mightily to keep a straight face, "I am not fucking Medusa."

"You should be." Ara stopped stitching for a moment, giving Cas her full attention. When she spoke again, Cas wasn't sure she had heard that much gentleness from Ara. "She was good for you, Cas. She was the only person who ever treated you kindly when you tossed truths at her. What happened with you two?"

"I told her one truth too many. You know what happened after that."

Ara visibly shifted back into her previous persona, starting to stitch again, trying not to let the mood dwell too much on the past.

"Well, if you're not going to go chase true love, the least you can do is chase bigger profits. Why don't you ever go on a tour, or to the fair, or something else? Like he said, if you're going to be the villain, you may as well make some money at it."

At the mention of the man who had just left the shop, Cas sighed. Wherever he was now, he was probably busy rationalizing it all away. She wouldn't see him again, but she had hoped that this time might be different. She always hoped it would be different.

He felt calmer after sitting on the bench for a little while. His mind started to find explanations for what he had just witnessed. He remembered a costume shop where he had seen all sorts of contact lenses - cat eyes, black demon eyes, even reptile eyes. She must have slipped them in while she was putting away her cards. That was why she had avoided looking at him then, so as not to give away the prank. The whole thing felt like he had been on some sort of hidden camera show. There was probably an audience out there somewhere, watching him and laughing, cut in with narration from the shop owners as they explained the next gag and how much they couldn't believe he was going along with everything. What has started out as blind panic was giving way to seething anger. He'd promised himself that other people wouldn't be able to take advantage of him like that again, and yet, here she was, playing him like a fiddle for the benefit of others. He pulled out the business card from his pocket, so he knew where to go back to and give her a piece of his mind.

"TRUTH SHOP," it said. And underneath, in smaller gold letters, "Κασσάνδρα τῆς Ἑκάβης, Proprietor." No address. No city. No phone number or email address. There was nothing in the card that he could use to find it again. Then he realized another odd thing about the shop - all of the things in the store had tags, names, and labels. None of the people that worked there did. He only had a business card and a name to work with, and those might not even be their real names. The challenge of it all appealed to him. He'd made a good life so far of taking down people that had hurt him. This was just one more wolf who could be easily portrayed as a vicious monster, preying on the innocent and the gullible. All he would have to do is provoke her, and all the darkness that everyone hid would come spilling out, and vindication of his efforts would soon follow. It was a tried and true formula for success.

Maybe he could retrace his steps. Or hire someone to find it for him. This time, it wouldn't take six years for revenge. Justice, he corrected himself. Nobody believes you unless you frame it as justice. That was the first lesson the Wolf had taught him, and it was one he would never forget.


End file.
